


Getting Out of a Ticket 101

by dragonspell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-08
Updated: 2009-12-08
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7902790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting pulled over, Dean makes sure he gets let off with only a warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting Out of a Ticket 101

**Author's Note:**

> Imported from Livejournal 8-28-16.

**Title:** Getting Out of a Ticket 101  
**Author:** [](http://dragonspell.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://dragonspell.livejournal.com/)**dragonspell**  
**Series:** Supernatural  
**Pairing:** OMCxDean  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** Pre-series. Bit of d/s.  
**Summary:** After getting pulled over, Dean makes sure he gets let off with only a warning.  
**Word Count:** 3395

  
On the fast track to Oregon where Dad is waiting for him to finish up his job in Missouri, Dean only makes it halfway across Nebraska. Red and blue lights flash in the Impala’s rearview mirror and Dean swears, punching the steering wheel. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” After all he’s only doing—he glances down at the speedometer. “Fuck.” 80. Dad’s going to be so pissed if Dean gets another ticket put on the Impala and more points taken off a fake ID.

“They don’t just fall from the sky, Dean,” Dad says. Asshole. Like he doesn’t have his fair share of unpaid tickets.

Swearing again about his luck, Dean pulls off to the side of the road somewhere in southwest Nebraska. He really doesn’t have a clue where he is because there’s nothing but cornfield on this stretch of road.

Which, Dean figures, might be a good thing—no witnesses. He rolls down his window as the cop strolls up all tough-guy strut and aviator shades. Dean smiles, trying to be his most charming. “What seems to be the problem, officer?”

The policeman frowns at Dean, looking unimpressed and Dean really wishes the man would remove his shades. It’s so damn hard trying to gauge somebody when you can’t see their eyes. It all becomes about body language and right now the cop, in his black uniform and jacket, is giving him absolutely nothing. “Do you know how fast you were going?” the officer asks tonelessly.

Dean’s mind races, kicking into gear. Okay, ‘getting out a ticket 101.’ He can do this. He’d done it before—lots of times. At least he had his fake id on top if it came down to that. For the cop’s benefit, though, Dean winces, tilting his head back against the seat of the Impala. “Aw, man, was I speeding? I’m sorry, sir. Guess I just got distracted by all the corn.”

Still looking unimpressed, the cop continued. “I clocked you at 83 in a 55.”

“Really? I had no idea!” Dean widens his eyes and tries for sincere.

Unfortunately, there’s a reason why that’d always been Sammy’s gig. “License and registration.” So apparently sweet talking was out. That just fucking sucked, but they could deal with it, right?

“I’m really sorry, officer,” Dean tries, putting a hint of distress in his voice. “I swear I didn’t know. I guess I got immune to the speed. I swear it won’t happen again.”

The cop finally removes his sunglasses and although he’s glaring, Dean could start singing praises. At least he had a point in his favor now. “License and registration,” the officer says again, with steel behind it.

Trying another tactic, Dean deliberately makes himself flinch at the tone and bails on his usual cocky attitude. “Yes, sir…” he says as meekly as he can manage, which, after a lifetime of growing up in John Winchester’s shadow, he figures is pretty damn meek. He flicks his tongue over his lower lip in a nervous gesture and when he sees the cop tracking the motion, he does it again. Dean could freaking crow at the moment because while it’s not the easiest or most efficient way out of a ticket, he knows he’s hit upon something good. He reaches for the glove box of the Impala, popping it open to grab one of the car’s many registrations. Selecting the one pressed against the left side—the one that’s going to match the id he’s about to give the officer—he brings it back to hold against his chest. He keeps his eyes low and to the side, not meeting the officer’s stare again, but flicking nervously to the man’s chest and back again. Meek and submissive, he keeps telling himself. Meek and submissive.

He lifts up to pull his wallet out of his back pocket and doesn’t miss the extra long glance the man gives his crotch. Yeah, he’s definitely in there.

Dean pulls the wallet out, fumbling it open and pulling out the top id. He joins it with the registration but doesn’t hand them over just quite yet. Instead he clutches them close and stares determinedly at the officer’s uniformed chest, licking his lips again. “Could…” he swallows, looks away and tries again. Oh yeah. He’s good. “Could you maybe just let me off with a warning, sir?” He gives a little shudder, playing it out. “This is my dad’s car, you see, and he’d be pissed.” It doesn’t hurt that that is completely true. He finally dares to meet the cop’s eyes again, trying to put every ounce of youthful innocence he can fake into the look. He lets his lips part, sticks the bottom one out just a little bit before he turns his head away again. “May-maybe we could…work something out? Please?”

Anybody with a brain should be able to figure out Dean’s game, he thinks. Lucky for him though, guys usually take one look at his mouth and the look of ‘anything you want, sir’ and their brains tend to just shut right on down. Dean hopes it’s got the same effect this time, because the officer is leaning in, putting his elbows down on the side of the Impala and Dean doesn’t think he’s imagining the heat in the man’s eyes.

“Are you offering to bribe me?” he asks and Dean lets his mouth fall completely open, jerking his eyes back to the man’s face.

“No, sir!” He swallows, looking down.

“Then license and registration.” Dean mentally snarls at himself—fuck—and hands them over. The officer gives them a glance before shoving them into a back pocket, leaving Dean just slightly confused. “Step out of the car,” the cop says and when Dean swallows this time, it’s not an act. ‘Out of the car’ can only mean two things, one good and one bad and Dean’s not entirely sure which one this is.

The officer steps back as the Impala’s door opens wide and Dean inches his way out. Dean grits his teeth against everything that his instincts are telling him—to start swinging, to run away—and forces himself to stay put. It’s all, hopefully, part of the game. “Turn around and put your hands against the car,” the cop orders and Dean stares blankly at him.

“Sir?” If he’s about to be frisked, then thank Christ his gun’s hidden under the front seat.

“I said: ‘Turn _around_ and put your _hands_ against the _car._ ” Each word is enunciated clearly and there’s just no arguing. Dean obeys, slowly turning around and putting his hands against the roof of the Impala.

Within seconds, the cop’s patting him down and Dean tries not to squirm. It’s not his fault—cops touching him give him the heebie-jeebies and probably always will. Hazard of the job, really. The professional hands, though, don’t make it much below his waist. They stop on his hips, just holding instead of continuing on. Now Dean lets himself fidget, trying to twist a little to get the officer in sight. “Um…sir?”

A dark rumble of a chuckle echoes by Dean’s ear and the hands are not nearly so professional now as they slide towards Dean’s crotch. “You don’t think I’m falling for this whole wide-eyed and innocent act, do you?”

Dean blinks, a bit confused by the mixed signals he’s getting. On one hand, he knows he was definitely catering quite well to the guy’s kinks. On the other, though, yeah, he’s definitely calling Dean out. On the third, though? On the third, the guy’s touching Dean’s dick. Dean shrugs and lets the whole thing charade drop. He pushes his ass out, groaning when it comes in contact with a solid body. “You never know,” he says. “Works sometimes.”

“That’s what I thought,” the cop chuckles to himself and palms Dean’s dick firmly.

Dean can’t stop the hiss and instinctual shove of his hips into the delicious friction. God but that’s nice. The cop groans and shoves back into him, obviously not nearly as unaffected as he was pretending to be. Then Dean’s being yanked away from the car and he squeaks in surprise as he’s dragged around to the front of the Impala. “Other side,” the cop growls at him. “Away from the road.” Dean nods his understanding and goes eagerly, tripping over his own feet as they rush to the other side of the car and partially hide themselves behind the bulk of the Impala.

The officer pushes Dean to his knees in the dirt and Dean gets a good look at the man’s crotch that he’s now eye-level with before flicking his gaze back up. Groaning, the man grabs Dean’s face, index finger tracing his lips. “Fuck,” the guy says. “I bet you’re good, aren’t you?”

Dean smiles and opens his mouth just wide enough to let his tongue lick out and touch the cop’s fingertip. The man groans and Dean’s smile turns evil. Huffing a laugh, Dean pushes the man’s hand out of the way and nuzzles into his crotch instead. His uniform pants are stiff beneath Dean’s face but Dean can feel the hard cock pulsing behind them. “Yeah…” the cop says, burying his fingers into Dean’s hair and pulling him as close as possible. “Yeah, do it.” With a quick flick of his wrist, Dean unsnaps, unzips, and opens the cop’s pants, reaching in to pull his dick out. He fumbles a bit with the underwear the man’s wearing before finally managing to shove it to the side and jerk out the hard flesh, giving it a little lick. The cop groans, hands tightening their grip in Dean’s hair.

Dean laughs and catches the guy’s eyes—a dark brown that’s almost black at this point—before licking completely up the underside of the shaft. “Fuck!” the cop swears, head snapping up and hips shoving forward. Dean tongues the head teasingly for a moment before popping the whole thing into his mouth, sucking on it like the rent’s due. “Christ… Yes. God, you _whore_.”

Dean snakes a hand between his own legs to stroke his neglected cock. He can’t help it. He loves giving blowjobs and dirty talk just turns his crank. Hard. Not to mention the cop isn’t just letting Dean suck, just standing there and letting him work—he’s moved on to holding Dean still and fucking his face. Dean moans and loosens his jaw, giving the man a soft wet hole to shove in and out of. Sweet God but he’s going to come in his jeans, isn’t he? On his knees in the dirt of a Nebraska cornfield whoring himself out to a cop and it’s just so fucking filthy he starts to pant. He pulls his mouth away from the cop’s dick, taking a moment to try and catch his breath before throwing himself back into it.

The cop’s pulling away, though, and tugging at Dean’s hair. Dean whines in disappointment, trying to get the hard dick back in his mouth but the cop yanks on his hair, twisting his head and bringing him to heel. “On your feet,” the man rasps and Dean doesn’t even question it. He’s already up.

The cop spins him, shoving him roughly against the hood of the Impala and Dean just barely catches himself in time, ending up just bent over instead of sprawled across. He’d complain about the rough treatment if it wasn’t sending sparks of need through his body and if the cop wasn’t collapsing on top of him, pinning him to the car. Held down against the sleek lines of the Impala, though, Dean’s in no mood to want to stop.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” the cop pants in his ear, clever, clever hands already wiggling between Dean and the Impala to fumble at Dean’s belt. The cop thrusts hard against Dean’s jean-clad ass, shoving him into the car’s sun warmed metal. “Didn’t you?”

Dean whimpers, not knowing if he’s supposed to answer or not but turned on by the way the cop’s pushing him against the car. Still, he’s supposed to answer direct questions from authority figures, right? “Yes, sir…” he moans.

For the answer, the cop rewards him by biting down on his neck and finishes opening his jeans, baring him to the world because Dean’s not wearing underwear. Dean shoves his hips back desperately, grinding against the man behind him as he spreads his legs. “Such a slut,” the cop hisses. “This really your daddy’s car?”

When Dean doesn’t answer, the cop smacks him hard on the side of his ass. Dean yelps, the hint of pain echoing through his body. “Yes, sir!” Sir, sir, anything you want sir. Groaning, Dean rubs his face against the hood of the Impala. Christ but he shouldn't be getting off on this as hard as he is.

“Such a slut sprawled on top of your daddy’s car,” the cop continues, giving Dean another spank that has Dean’s cock jerking against the Impala. “What would Daddy think?”

Is shouldn’t be hot—God, it _shouldn’t_ —but Dean’s spent his entire life obediently following his dad’s orders. It’s not his fault that it’s pre-programmed in to enjoy it. So not his fault. “Christ…” he gasps, humping against the Impala. His baby is good to him, giving him some friction but it’s not what he really needs—it’s not a warm hand wiggling around his cock. Dean mewls, voice edging a bit into desperation as he knows what he wants but doesn’t know what he’s allowed to have. “Oh fuck…”

“Like me talking about your Daddy?” he’s asked. Dean whimpers. “Bet you wish he was here, huh? Think he’d like to see you spread out all over his car?”

Oh fuck it. Dean shoves a hand between him and the Impala, wrapping it around himself. It feels so damn good he nearly comes but before he can the cop rips his hand away, pinning it behind his back. “What do you think he’d say, seeing you begging for it on top of his car?” the cop mocks in a hard pant. “Think he’d spank you for being such a slut?” Dean squirms, twisting in the cop’s hold. God, he needed to just shut up and get on with it already! The cop finally pushes Dean’s jeans off his hips and palms his bare ass. “Think maybe I should spank you for him?”

Dean’s so frustrated he could scream because he’s sure that he’s going to explode any second now. “God, just fuck me already!” he demands. He knows it’s not going to help, just clue the cop into how desperate he’s starting to get but Dean certainly didn’t expect that it would stop the man entirely. Maddeningly, the cop pauses, just holding Dean against the car while Dean writhes. “Goddamn it! Just fucking do it!”

The cop suddenly laughs, moving his hand—finally—between Dean’s legs, pressing against his hole like the cop’s considering it. “What happened to that submissive little attitude you were trying to sell me? All that ‘yes, sir’ ‘no, sir’?”

“There’s a condom in the front pocket,” Dean replies because he’s done with this game. He needs a cock up his ass in the next five minutes or he doesn’t think he’s going to make it. He’ll call the guy sir all he wants just as soon as he starts fucking him.

Luckily, they seem to be on the same page. The cop laughs again before warning, “Don’t move,” and letting Dean go to bend over and rifle the jeans puddle over Dean’s feet. Dean obeys keeping himself flat against the hood of the car and wiggling his hips. He has no intention of going _anywhere_ until after they’re done here. And Christ, when the cop leans back over him, pressing spit-slick fingers against his ass to try and prep him, it’s so completely worth it. “You ready?” the cop asks and Dean moans.

“Yes, sir…”

“I see you found that proper little attitude again,” the cop says and Dean wants to tell him to fuck off and leave his damn fetishes alone except the cop’s pushing into him and Dean really doesn’t want him to go away. At the first finger, Dean whines and spreads his legs as far as he can get them and still be standing. It feels so wonderful wiggling inside of him, pressing up against him and filling him up. “Do you want another one, slut?”

Dean doesn’t hesitate, just pushes back, wiggling eagerly. “Yes, sir.”

The cop’s free hand trails up Dean’s side, over his shoulder and neck to cup his face. “That feel good?” he asks, pushing in a second finger

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies, closing his eyes and giving in to the cop’s caress, nuzzling into his hand. He’s not going to pretend he doesn’t like this. Not going to pretend he doesn’t like being shoved down and fucked, made to say ‘yes, sir’ and shown his place. He can’t.

When he’s with Dad, he has to be so careful. Around Dad, he doesn’t let his eyes slip, always confines himself to girls because Dean knows if Dad were to see the kind of guy that Dean likes—big, dark, forceful, the kind of guys you’d _better_ call ‘sir’ or else—he’d know. He’d know and there’d be no hiding it from him.

But Dad’s over a 1000 miles west and Dean’s bent over the Impala moaning ‘yes, sir’ and “Please, sir…” Oh, _God_ please. Please, please, please…

“Heh. Want it, do you?”

Dean pushes his ass up, repeating the “please, sir…” and that’s all it takes for the cop to pull his fingers out and shove his cock in. Dean grunts at the first push of the blunt tip against his hole, groans as it slides in, whimpers when it bottoms out. Fuck but that feels so nice. It’s been ages since he’s allowed himself to get fucked.

He loves being full. He loves having a man surrounding him, fucking into him. Taking care of him. Dean whines and pushes back against the guy behind him.

“Yeah, I’d love Daddy to see you now…” the cop says, rocking Dean against the car. “Think he’d like it, too?” Dean twists, the wrongness of the words tangling up inside and coming out filthy hot, zinging through his nerves. “Maybe he’d give you a cock to suck on…”

With a hard shudder, Dean comes, hips giving quick little jerks as he paints the side of the Impala. He moans, collapsing against the hood of the car as the cop speeds up, thrusting into Dean’s unresisting body.

“Oh, you liked that, didn’t you,” the cop grinds out, sounding close to the edge himself. “Sick little—” Grunting, he comes, pulsing into the condom, fingers digging bruises into Dean’s hips. Dean groans as he feels the cop’s dick spasming in his ass and tries to keep the smirk off his face—the one he gets whenever he knows he’s pleased someone.

The cop pulls out and backs away, leaving Dean bent over the Impala alone. Dean wiggles a little, enjoying the stretch on the soreness in his ass and when he throws a lot over his shoulder, he sees that the cop is staring at him. Dean grins and pushes off the Impala to grab the jeans puddle around his ankles.

His license and registration hit the dirt beside Dean’s feet and he scoops them up before glancing up at the cop who’s pulling out his shades again, uniform buckled back up. “Better get back to Daddy,” the cop tells him. “He might be missing you.”

Dean smirks and licks his lips. “I’ll tell him you said ‘hi,’ officer.”

“Don’t speed,” the cop grunts, heading back to the patrol car.

“Only if you’ll pull me over again,” Dean says to his back, laughing at the guy’s dismissive wave. Dean chuckles to himself as he heads back around the Impala and slides in. He waits for the cop to pull back on the road, turning around to head to his hiding hole again before he edges the Impala onto the blacktop. As soon as her wheels touch the pavement, he puts the metal to the floor and with a roar, she’s zooming back up to 80. Just because.  



End file.
